


Peter and His Wolf

by chubbychoco



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Anal Fingering, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Biting, Bottom Peter Quill, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual, Cultural Differences, Dirty Talk, First Time Bottoming, Gladiators, Horrible Pun, Hraxian Kraglin, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Canonical Species, People as Prizes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Claiming, Scenting, Scratching, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbychoco/pseuds/chubbychoco
Summary: Hindsight being twenty-twenty, Yondu realized that issuing him a challenge like that was what prompted him to go all-in on finding himself a Hraxian to have sex with.  But as Peter strode off the ship, all swagger and confidence, Yondu wondered if maybe he'd goaded the boy into more than he could handle.Ah, well.  Some lessons got learned the hard way.





	Peter and His Wolf

The kid had gotten pretty damn good at charming his way into people's pants...or up their skirts, down their dresses, and just generally past whatever clothes they used to hide their nethers from passers-by.  
  
Of course, he wasn't a kid any more. He was twenty now, two years past the Terran age of consent where he came from – Yondu had looked it up, just to see if little Petey was fibbing when he said he was old enough to do anything he wanted on Contraxia. At the time, he had most certainly been lying; he hadn't even been old enough to even buy himself a glass of sweetling fizz, let alone flop around on top of a hooker bot. Now, though, he could throw back booze with the best of them. And for Peter, not having to pay for sex was a point of pride.  
  
That really grated on Yondu. It would have been funny, watching a Ravager try to smooth-talk their way into bed with someone who'd heard it all in every possible language, if Peter wasn't so damn good at it. It didn't seem to matter what planet they set down on, there was always someone tripping over themselves to grind against him. And they were always attractive, too; Yondu's brows had nearly shot straight off of his face when he'd seen Peter strutting around with a Sakaaran Imperial. An _Imperial,_ for flarksake.  
  
But when they punched the coordinates for Hrax into the _Eclector's_ temperamental nav board, Yondu was confident that the Terran's dick-driven winning streak was about to come to a screeching halt.  
  
“First off, you ain't nearly scarred up enough to rate with Hraxian ladies,” he'd laughed as Peter had demanded to know exactly _why_ the idea of him scoring on Hrax was so funny. “They like 'em rough and tough there. Survivor-types with lotsa marks.”  
  
“Okay, but Hraxian men also exist,” Peter reminded him. “Or are they a sucker for a scar too?”  
  
That had made Yondu laugh even harder. “You ain't ready for what a Hraxian man's got in his pants.” Nearby, Kraglin had shifted and gone a blotchy blue. “Not until you roll around with somethin' a little more adventurous than yer' average Xandarian.”  
  
Hindsight being twenty-twenty, Yondu realized that issuing him a challenge like that was what prompted him to go all-in on finding himself a Hraxian to fuck. But as Peter strode off the ship, all swagger and confidence, Yondu wondered if maybe he'd goaded the boy into more than he could handle.  
  
Ah, well. Some lessons got learned the hard way.  
  


* * *

  
  
Hrax didn't exactly look like the most promising of locales as they approached the surface. A good portion of its hostile scrubland was dug out, the earth gouged by mining operations that snaked long, winding tunnels deep into the belly of the planet. Its forests, few and far between, were filled with large predators. Its plains and cities were filled with something just as dangerous: packs of Hraxian children. That was the way of it there – get kicked out young, form packs to survive, grow more and more confident with age until adult society would recognize you as ready to be part of its turning gears. Peter found it fascinating, in a barbaric sort of way.  
  
And as if that wasn't enough, Yondu hadn't been lying about the scars. From the moment he stepped off of the _Eclector_ he was surrounded, and yet Peter had never felt so invisible in a crowd. No matter how many dashing smiles he conjured up, all he got in return were polite smiles back...or, more frequently, derisive scoffs as the object of his attention turned to look for someone a little more sharp-toothed. It was disappointing at first, but after the second hour, it had tipped over into 'disheartening'.  
  
They'd arrived just in time for the Hraxian Bloodletting Festival – timing which Yondu insisted was one hundred percent coincidental, despite how blatantly excited Kraglin was to participate. From his description of the events that would mark the next week, it was the local equivalent of a joust, but with fewer lances and swords and more bare-knuckled destruction of faces. They fought in tiers, and if they lost, their opponent decided whether they felt like killing the defeated or not (with a heavy leaning towards the former). Questions about prizes only netted him harsh laughs and being pointed towards a line of sleek white benches at the front row of the arena.  
  
The arena was a simple affair – a large, round wood-fenced circle of dirt, surrounded by backless benches. Most of these were dark wood, a rich red-black like ceylon ebony, but on opposite sides to each other were six short rows of stark white ones. At the north side of the arena was a short tower, each of its four corners fitted with massive horns made from beast tusks. Awnings made from the tanned hides of local creatures stretched over the viewing area, but there was no shade to be found in the arena itself. There was only earth raked free of stones and packed down, and the inside of a log fence that was stained a harsh blue-gray from all the blood it had soaked up. It was one of many such areas, all of which would be swarmed during the festival.  
  
_Blood sports,_ Peter thought with an internal scoff as he sat down on one of the bleached benches. Hey, it wasn't like there was anything better to watch, not until a client hit them up. Nearby, several Hraxians snickered at him.  
  
He was rather surprised that Yondu was alright with Kraglin's participation; it wasn't like they owned each other or anything, but only an idiot could miss the fact that they were seeing each other...and despite Yondu's insistence that it was just fucking, there was a deep emotional attachment between them, and they'd be heartbroken if the other died. Seemed like a pretty heavy risk just for Kraglin to get his bloodthirsty wiggles out.  
  
As the sun dipped past its place overhead and started sinking down to hover over the city's skyline, the benches became crowded. Peter could feel the crowd's nervous energy, and he mirrored it, shifting and shaking in his seat as he waited for the events to start. It would be interesting to watch Kraglin fight without restraint. Peter had seen him execute some swift kills, and he'd sprinted away from his swinging fists more often than he could shake a stick at, but he'd heard from the other Ravagers that when he was truly enthralled Kraglin would tear throats out with his tee -  
  
“Boy, what the flark are you doing?”  
  
Peter jumped in his seat and turned to face Yondu – who was settling into one of the benches beside him, shirtless beneath his coat and decked out in more jewelry than could be considered normal. He was also attended by four or five smirking Hraxians, all of whom seemed oblivious to the radiating hatred Kraglin was sending their way.  
  
“I'm gonna watch the festival thing,” Peter answered as if Yondu were slow.  
  
“Not from there, you ain't. That's a prize bench.”  
  
Peter frowned in confusion, and the snickering around him grew louder. “The prize bench?”  
  
Yondu sighed and sent his gaze skyward as if begging the entities he didn't believe in for help in raising this stupid, stupid Terran. “Didn't no one tell you? Anyone sittin' on them white seats is fair game for any of the winners. You're offerin' yourself as a prize – an' you ain't allowed to be picky, neither. Any winner what wants you gets you, an' they get to keep you for whatever they want until the festival's over. Only thing they ain't allowed to do is kill you.”  
  
Peter's mouth fell open for half a second before the quiet titters around him turned to mocking guffaws, and then he snapped it shut and glared. “Yeah, no one told me about that.”  
  
“Well, get your ass over here before the festival starts. Prizes ain't allowed to move once they blow them horns there.” Yondu seemed to decide that was the end of the conversation. He looked around himself, tallying up the drinks and food he'd been brought, before folding his coat collar down to reveal a vicious-looking scar on his neck. Almost immediately, the group that had been doting on him went stiff-backed, then skulked off. Peter watched this silent exchange with some dawning realization. Whatever had made that scar, it had instantly made Yondu undesirable to them. Yondu was deeply familiar with the customs here, and manipulated them to his advantage.  
  
And if he wanted to get laid, he was going to have to do the same.  
  
“No.”  
  
Yondu looked at Peter as though he'd babbled nonsense. “No?”  
  
“You said I'm not attractive here, right?” Peter asked. He ignored the fact that several people around him vocally confirmed this. “So if I sit here, I've got nothing to worry about. Unless you're wrong.”  
  
“Quit thinkin' with your pecker, boy. Ain't just sex they'll take prizes for. You wanna spend the week cleanin' someone's house? Beatin' the bush for bilgesnipe hunts?”  
  
“I am ninety percent sure that I could change their minds even if that _was_ what they had planned for me,” Peter said with a cocksure grin. “Do I need to remind you of the priestess? Or that big-name actress? Or the Sakaaran Im - “  
  
“Would you shut up already about the Imperial?” Yondu groused, finishing his rhetorical question just in time for a booming blast from the horn-blowers. The crowd around them exploded in a flurry of cheering and applause, and Yondu rolled his eyes once again. “Too late now. Don't say I didn't warn you, Quill.”  
  
Peter was completely convinced that Yondu was overreacting. The first three fights did nothing to change his mind, although he had to admit, it was fascinating in a bestial sort of way. Hraxians did not half-ass their fights; they tore into each other with vicious abandon, occasionally weilding sharp weapons but more often sticking with the sharp-nailed digits that the gods above had given them. Broken bones and bleeding wounds abounded, all of which netted fresh cheers from the crowd, but the people very nearly exploded out of their seats when one contender – a sharp-eyed woman whose lips were pulled back in a scar-warped sneer – threw her opponent to the ground and cracked his femur under one booted foot.  
  
Peter swallowed nervously. Maybe Yondu had been right. He wasn't sure he wanted to have sex with anyone who was capable of doing that to him. She didn't kill her opponent, but spat a mouthful of phlegmy blood at him and told him to fight her again when he posed a real challenge. Peter thought for a second that he was going to piss himself when she stalked in his direction...  
  
...and relaxed in his seat when she moved past him and hoisted a gangly Hraxian man, probably not long out of his pack, to his feet and buried her nose in his neck.  
  
Beside him, Yondu was laughing. “You shoulda seen the look on your face!”  
  
Peter slid him a sarcastic smile. “Like you would have done any better in my shoes.”  
  
“Hell yeah I woulda. A woman like that might knock you out with her thighs, but it's worth the headache.”  
  
Peter scoffed and turned his attention back to the arena. Alright. Worth the headache, he'd said. That meant whoever ended up sitting on his dick, he'd be a happy camper. Even if he was also a slightly sore one.  
  
Four fights later, Kraglin was up – and it became immediately apparent why Yondu wasn't concerned with his wellbeing. He didn't need to be. Kraglin was a whirlwind, barely even noticing the handful of cuts his opponent managed to inflict on him. He moved with a bizarre hybrid of violence and grace that seemed out of place to someone who'd spent years watching him trip over the tools he'd left out. It was only once his opponent dropped to their knees, delirious from blood loss and exhaustion, that Kraglin finally tackled them back...  
  
...and true to the rumors, tore into their jugular with his teeth. He yanked back in a spray of blue and gave a gristed-glass howl that the crowd echoed in eerie unison. All except for Peter, who was staring in horror at the man whose threats to eat him as a child suddenly felt very real, and Yondu, who wasn't even trying to be subtle about adjusting his erection.  
  
Kraglin scrubbed the blood from his chin with the back of one hand and headed towards Yondu with purpose, vaulting the waist-high fence like it was beneath his notice. Yondu thrummed with delight as he was yanked to his feet, and Peter pointedly did not look at his captain. Yondu's groin was right at face-level now, and he didn't need an eye poked out.  
  
Yondu gave Peter a snaggletoothed grin. “I'm outta here, kid. Enjoy the festival.”  
  
Peter was still very much not looking. “Please leave before I hurl.”  
  
Yondu's barking laugh followed him as he left, and though Peter didn't see where Kraglin's hands were, his mind's eye did a spectacularly unhelpful job of filling in the blanks. Ugh.  
  
There were far more prizes than contestants for the day, and Peter knew that the more hopeful – or devoted, how exactly did the Hraxian code of honor work anyway? – would be back tomorrow. He was fairly sure he'd be among them, perching his suddenly unappealing self next to a slew of Hraxians with silvery-blue lines etched into their skin. He hated the idea that Yondu might be right. Not so much because it meant he wouldn't have sex, but because it meant Yondu would laugh and gloat and constantly remind him about it until it got boring. And then he'd fly over to Hrax just to make it fun again.  
  
Peter watched as a man with hair the color of rust spun against his bald-shaved opponent, hand flying out to backhand her. His knuckles clipped her ear, leaving her snarling and thrashing...in the wrong direction. The bare head twisted to bite a hand that had already been withdrawn, and the redhead kneed her hard in the spine before digging his fingers into the exposed cords of her neck. Peter hissed in sharp sympathy pain as the muscles jumped and tore beneath his fingers, and the woman dropped to the dirt screaming and clutching a hole in her flesh.  
  
A hole. Torn with someone's bare hand. Peter gulped and glanced around, but the crowd ignored him. They all wanted to see if the redhead would kill his opponent or not.  
  
He did not, though he did give her a swift kick to the temple just to make sure he wouldn't be attacked from behind. Peter cheered with the rest as the redhead strode towards his section, but fell quiet when he did not divert his course. He wondered who the man would pick, what sort of person appealed to someone who probably stopped recognizing threats back when he was still in his pack.  
  
And then Peter was hoisted to his feet, copper-sharp breath warm against his face.  
  
“Soft little thing.” The redhead brushed a finger over one of Peter's stubbly cheeks. “The only cuts your face has seen are from shaving. Are you that smooth all over?”  
  
Peter's eyes were wide as his brain struggled to catch up with what had just happened. “Uh – I mean, I've been stabbed once or twice. I've got a few scars.”  
  
“Hm.” Peter was pulled close against him, and he could feel the firm, hot press of the Hraxian's cock through his leathers. His own stirred when the redhead gave a filthy grind that left nothing to the imagination. “Let's make more.”  
  


* * *

  
  
His name was Fenix, and he at least had the decency to take Peter back to his house before he started doing anything _too_ obscene. Of course, Peter realized around the time they were halfway to Fenix's home that there was no earthly (or Hrax-ly) way he'd be topping. Fenix had a commanding grip on his ass, using it to steer him in the direction he needed to go, and every now and then his fingers would dip against the seam of his leathers as though he were trying to finger him through them.  
  
The attempt alone was enough to get Peter's blood pumping, even if he had about as much experience with things in his ass as he did herding cattle. And when Fenix slid his fingers beneath the lip of his belt, knuckles catching on the tight leather, Peter nearly leaned against him. Fortunately, he did not, or else they may not have made it the last quarter-mile.  
  
It was a tall stone home with two floors. The second level was more like a massive shelf that housed Fenix' sleeping space – a large bed covered in dull red pillows and piled with blankets and furs – and was accessible not by stairs, but by a series of wooden beams affixed to a central pillar that apparently served the same function on Hrax. There was beaded art on the walls, as well as the bleached skulls of kills past.  
  
Peter didn't have time to appreciate it properly. “Take it off,” Fenix instructed the moment his door was closed. “All of it.”  
  
Alright, so Peter was used to more...subtle approaches. Drinks bought with coy smiles and murmured accounts of near-misses in his spacefaring. The whole grab-them-and-grind thing didn't generally get you much except a slap to the face, but hot damn, it was working for him right now. Something about skipping straight to what they were both there for had his blood picking up, settling warm and heavy between his legs.  
  
There was still the little issue, though, of his...preferred position. “Oh god, oh god – hey, any chance of me topping?”  
  
“None.”  
  
Well, that didn't leave much up to interpretation. “Oh. Because, see, I haven't - “  
  
Fenix's eyes snapped up to meet his. “You've never fucked?”  
  
“I have!” Peter insisted. He wasn't about to be mistaken for some blushing, giggling virgin, not in this lifetime. “Just not – there. I mean, a couple times with some toys, but I've never actually had an actual penis go inside my ass.” He was suddenly struck with a horrible thought. Yondu had said he wouldn't be ready for what a Hraxian man had between his legs. What if it wasn't a penis in any sense he knew? What if it was some sort of Eldritch abomination, or a cone with the wide end first? Something awful even by space standards?  
  
Fenix didn't seem to be put off by this news; he fixed Peter in a wolfish grin. “Hm, I'm kind of happy to hear it. Gonna be real nice, watching my cock disappear and knowing no one's ever made you feel like this before. Listening to those moans and knowing no one's ever heard them quite like that.”  
  
Possible nightmare cocks were forgotten; his words were bellows on the fire of Peter's libido. For a man who was insistent on topping, Fenix sure made the reverse sound appealing. He pointed up at the second floor. “I need to get up there before I'm too hard to climb.”  
  
“Clothes first.”  
  
Peter leaned back, away from those clever hands, and started stripping down with the practiced ease that came from wearing that coat every single day. Fenix did the same, though he wore fewer articles, and of less complexity. Peter was inwardly relieved when his pants dropped to reveal a fairly normal cock – large, blue-flushed rather than red, darker at the base with a slightly pointed head. Not exactly like his own, which was framed in a spray of freckles on his thighs and a heavy thatch of brown-ginger curls, but not bad to look at either.  
  
Fenix had followed his gaze. “See something you like?”  
  
Peter was nodding before he even thought about it. “Yeah.”  
  
“Good. See, you'll take to this just fine.” Fenix turned Peter towards the plank ladder, encouraging him onto it with a firm hand on the ass. He paused when his fingers stroked between his cheeks, though. “Do Terrans self-lubricate?”  
  
“Ah – no. No, we do not.”  
  
“Hm. Good to know; this could have been a very unfortunate roll otherwise.” Fenix turned towards his kitchen, but didn't actually walk before giving one of Peter's lamentably dry cheeks a gentle slap. “Go on then, get comfortable. Relax. Touch yourself a bit. Whatever you like, short of stealing my things.”  
  
Peter would have been offended by that last part if he hadn't known that it was a perfectly rational assumption to make when it came to Ravagers...and hell, he'd have been lying if he'd said that a few wallets hadn't magically followed him back onto the _Eclector_ after some of his encounters. Still, Peter wasn't about to steal from any man who was about to put their dick in him, and especially not one who had nearly killed someone in single combat not a half-hour ago.  
  
He figured out the spiral climbing pattern needed to access Fenix's bed before Fenix was through, and Peter decided to make himself comfy in bed. It wasn't difficult – the thing was like a giant marshmallow, squishy and cool on his heated skin. He settled back, eyelids fluttering...and then, in a moment of inspiration, decided to position himself so that the first thing Fenix would see once he finished his climb was his parted legs.  
  
If the way Fenix's breath hitched into a growl was any indicator, the move was a success.  
  
“For a man who's never bottomed, you're making it extremely difficult not to fuck you without foreplay, you know that?”  
  
Peter couldn't help but smirk at that. “I have that effect on people.”  
  
“You do not want that now, I promise.” Fenix finished his climb up, and Peter admired the subtle roll of his muscles as he moved. He really was attractive – not gorgeous in that artificial, silicone-or-surgery way you saw in asteroid belt brothels, but in a rugged, mean way. A 'good girls prefer bad boys' sort of way, except this time, Peter was the girl. Hell, if getting topped was half as fun as his past lovers had made it sound, he could definitely get behind that...or, well, underneath it.  
  
Fenix gave an approving hum as he looked Peter over, and he set aside a jar he'd picked up from his kitchen. “You weren't lying. You _have_ been stabbed a few times.” He knelt on the bed between his legs, cock bobbing with the motion, and traced a hand idly along the marred skin there. “They're lovely.”  
  
“They did not feel lovely,” Peter said in response.  
  
“They never do,” Fenix chuckled, pressing the pad of one thumb firmly against one of the nastier scars. “Well. Not stab wounds. But I think you're going to look back on the ones I leave on your thighs and back, and you'll look at those very differently.”  
  
Peter couldn't deny the throb that ran through him at that. “Is this how it usually is? No waiting, no drinks or flirting? Straight from battle to boning?”  
  
Fenix looked at him as though the question were a rather simple one. “What were you expecting when you sat on the prize bench, exactly?”  
  
“I wasn't. Never been to Hrax before, and my captain didn't tell me much.”  
  
There was a moment of silence as Fenix looked Peter in the eye, throat bobbing and tongue sliding over his lips. “Then I'm giving you one last chance to back out. It doesn't seem fair to hold you to customs you've never even heard of.”  
  
Peter shook his head at that. “I'm already half-hard. I don't want to back out, I'm just curious.”  
  
Fenix did an extremely bad job of hiding how pleased he was by that response. “I'll tell you everything you want to know later. For now, less culture shock, more pillow talk.” He reached over and popped the top off of the jar, dipping his fingers in. Whatever was in there, it didn't smell, and it melted slowly over his fingers, turning clear and slick. “Relax.”  
  
Peter had given that order more times than he could count, but he found it a lot harder to take than give. He made a small, nervous noise when Fenix stroked between his parted legs, one finger nudging against a hole that just didn't want to unclench. Peter let his head fall back, breath escaping him in a nervous hiss as Fenix nudged with more patience than he'd have thought him capable of, given his earlier rush.  
  
“Touch yourself,” Fenix said simply.  
  
Peter looked back up at that. “What?”  
  
“Touch yourself,” he repeated. “Slowly. Like you would if no one was watching.”  
  
There was quite a bit of thought involved with doing that – not with pulling out his favorite moves, Peter could do those in his sleep. But convincing himself to do them even though Fenix was definitely watching? That took a little more mental fortitude. It was embarrassing, putting on a show like this. Stroking slowly up his shaft, thumb gliding beneath the crown and then going down, down so he could gently lift his own balls. His cheeks burned bright enough to hide his freckles as he lost himself to distraction, hips rolling at the same dragging pace as his hand...  
  
...and then Fenix's finger sunk in, surprisingly slippery and very different to what Peter had experienced on his own.  
  
“Oh my god, that's weird, that's - “  
  
“Easy, easy,” Fenix soothed, leaning over him and whispering into his hair. “Don't think about the pressure.”  
  
“Easy for _you_ to say,” Peter huffed. He could hear Fenix give a soft hum as if to say 'good point'. Peter would have carried on, but Fenix gave a couple firm pumps of his finger – nothing too fast or hard, just enough to make Peter's body relax when he held it still again. With that internal clench softening ever so slightly, Fenix set a more deliberate pace. He was slow and confident, twisting his finger so he could rub against different places.  
  
Peter's back bowed up for the briefest of moments, eyes slamming shut. “F-Fuck, Fenix.”  
  
“I like that.” Fenix worked in a wide circle, loosening Peter's rim. “Hm, hearing you say my name like that – breathless, needy, a little confused. Not quite sure if you're sold on this yet, but damn, you will be.” He withdrew the digit, only to push it back in with another. Peter didn't seem upset, though the additional stretch had him whining. “Too much?”  
  
“No, no, 's alright. It feels...” Peter trailed off there.  
  
Fenix wasn't having it. He scissored his fingers, saying over Peter's harsh cry of pleasure, “Tell me. I want to hear it.”  
  
Peter's throat tensed as he swallowed a nervous laugh. “It's not like with a toy. You're so warm, and you keep feeling around for the spots that feel good.”  
  
“You noticed that, then.”  
  
“Fuckin' hard not to, when you touch...” Peter waited until Fenix's fingertips grazed over his sweet spot before finishing. “... _there..!_ ”  
  
Fenix grinned devilishly and kept his fingers there – not digging in, but rolling gently, feather-light and careful. Peter couldn't seem to decide whether to tighten around him, or slacken into bliss-addled jelly. And the noises he made; sweet, hungry sounds like he could feel those tiny presses all the way into the base of his cock. Fenix waited until the next time Peter's body relaxed completely before adding a third finger, waiting until the initial clench disappeared before fucking him slowly on them.  
  
Peter was making the filthiest noises, little whines and gasps that had Fenix's cock hard and leaking. “Can't wait any more,” he growled, eyes fixed on the rippling of Peter's abdominal muscles. “Need to fuck you; let me fuck you, Peter.”  
  
Peter nodded, too drunk on new sensations to put words to it. He felt the loss of Fenix's fingers more keenly than he'd have expected, the emptiness unwelcome. It took away that warm, throbbing pulse that had taken over his senses. And he'd have complained about it, too, if it weren't for the knowledge that Fenix was only withdrawing them to make room for a good seven or so inches of warm blue-flushed hard-on.  
  
Fenix grabbed some more of the stuff in the jar, putting a generous scoop over Peter's hole before using the rest to slick himself up. Peter swallowed hard as he braced one thigh, that first nudge of pressure sending a nervous tingle through him. That nudge soon became a steady press, and Peter groaned as Fenix slid inside. The slight point to the head made it easier than expected, Peter's body relaxing almost as if to draw him in.  
  
Fenix growled as he bottomed out, hips coming snug with Peter's ass. He gave those fuzzy-haired calves a nudge, encouraging them up on his shoulders before he settled his palms on his thighs, stroking soothingly. “ _Fuck,_ that's good – how do you feel?”  
  
“Full,” Peter answered in a half-gasp. “Weird.”  
  
“It gets better,” Fenix assured him, rolling forward in a few shallow thrusts. Peter made a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, his cock jerking against his belly.  
  
“Do that again.”  
  
“See?” Fenix tightened his grip, nails digging in. Peter could feel the sting in his skin, and he wondered if Fenix was going to start marking him up already. He then stopped wondering much of anything as he started moving again, the pumping of his hips significantly less experimental now. “You feel so good.”  
  
Peter nodded, mouth half-open and already filled with tiny, needy sounds that spilled forward every time Fenix thrust his hips. He rolled back against him once he found his feet, planting them on the bed on either side of Fenix's hips and using them for leverage.  
  
Fenix growled, though the smile on their face wasn't nearly so aggressive. “ _Damn,_ Peter.” He tightened his grip, and now Peter could feel the slow trickle of blood down one thigh. Yep, he'd been completely serious. With Peter's participation being far more vigorous than anticipated, Fenix had all the feedback he needed to start fucking him properly.  
  
On the one hand, he had been right – Peter could barely believe how quickly he took to the heated slide in and out of him and the firm slap of hips against his ass. He was canting breathlessly against him in the space of maybe forty-five seconds, feeling the tightness in his balls and the rhythmic bump of his tip dabbing down against the plane of his middle.  
  
On the other hand, Fenix claimed rather aggressively. He rutted forward hard and with purpose, clawing Peter closer until he could hold him snug against him. With each snap of his hips, he growled against his neck and held him tighter, until Peter was fairly sure he didn't _say_ 'mine' so much as embed the will of it into his skin with each heated breath.  
  
“A-And you keep me all week?” Peter asked, wriggling slightly so that he was better seated.  
  
Fenix was more than happy to shift his grip, thrusting just a bit harder. “Unless I die in one of the next rounds.”  
  
“You could die?”  
  
“Sure,” Fenix panted. “Same as – _ah_ – anyone else could.”  
  
Peter wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. Sure, he didn't have any immediate attachment to him, but on the other hand, it was sort of unsettling to think that the man who was currently buried to his balls in him could be cold and in the ground by the same time tomorrow. “Dude. That's kind o-of weird, don't you think? It's like a - “  
  
“Peter? Stop talking,” Fenix laughed, breathy and light as he pulled Peter up into each thrust.  
  
He was content enough to obey. Not just because it pushed those unnerving thoughts from his head, but also because the noises between their bodies were as good as music...at least when coupled with that sharp, heavy pleasure that felt like someone had drawn a direct line between his slicked hole and everything good in his brain.  
  
Not that this entailed silence, not by any means. Peter was, as any of the _Eclector_ crew would attest, impossible to keep quiet; now his noises manifested in the form of deep moans and sharp, whining breaths that caught every time Fenix's motions had him fully seated. He could feel his muscles working, milking every inch of Hraxian arousal. And every now and then, when Fenix grazed his sweet spot, his voice climbed an octave to hit some filthy, toe-curling note that he'd previously assumed was reserved for paid girls on cheap holovids.  
  
Peter could feel Fenix mouthing at his neck, clawing hard into his hair and scenting him deeply...which was strangely hot, once Peter thought about it. The scrape of Fenix's nails down his nape was the subdued clawing of a man drunk on his smell, whose thoughts swum with nothing but him. Sure, Peter may have been underneath him, but there was a power in that. And _damn,_ it felt good. He seized onto both of Fenix's shoulders for leverage, goading him into moving harder.  
  
Fenix drove into him with increasing fervor, probably rougher than he should have, but Peter didn't care. He rode him back pound for pound, heat building in his middle. This was perfect. This was stars-flarking perfect, and he threw his head back with something parallel to the Hraxian howl when three particularly well-placed thrusts stroked his sweet spot in succession.  
  
That noise was what brought Fenix's hands to his back, digging raw lines down either side of his spine as his teeth clacked fruitlessly against his collarbone. “More,” Fenix panted, those long strokes dwindling down to near-lagomorphic spasms of his hips as his own climax built up on him. “I want to hear you howl like that when you come, Peter; do it for me.”  
  
Peter wasn't sure he could replicate the noise consciously. But as that fire that had been building in his belly shattered past his self-control and roared through his limbs, setting each and every nerve alight with ecstasy, he gave it his best effort. His voice was hoarse and tired, broken from a damn hard ride, but it still echoed through the house and filled Fenix's ears like music. He could feel his orgasm pooling on his abdomen, the puddle smacked and smeared with Fenix's little hip-rolls.  
  
“Coming,” Fenix growl-panted into his hair. “Gonna come, Peter, _fuck -_ “  
  
Peter should have been more appreciative of the warning. He figured there would be a flood of heat – although truth be told, he had no clue if you could actually _feel_ someone jizz inside of you – and that would be that.  
  
Instead, there was a sudden low shiver and contrary to what usually happened, Fenix's cock _grew._  
  
“What the hell, what the hell - !“  
  
Fenix didn't seem to hear him, but Peter was definitely aware of the way those tiny thrusts now tugged at his rim. It wasn't _bad,_ but he had no clue what the hell was happening...and whatever had happened, Fenix now felt twice as big inside of him, stretching him far past what he'd been prepped for. Fenix was saying something in Hraxian and it sounded possessive, and all Peter could think about in that moment was the overwhelming fullness inside of him.  
  
“Fenix!” he practically yipped.  
  
Fenix seemed startled out of his senseless chasing, and he met Peter's eyes with a distant, glazed smile. “Hm, you alright?”  
  
“Big,” Peter gasped, though it wasn't his most coherent or graceful of statements.  
  
“Big..? Oh. Oh, shit.” Fenix's cheeks were already flushed from exertion, so Peter couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or not. “Have you never seen anyone knot?”  
  
“Nod?”  
  
“Knot. With a 't' sound.” Fenix looked a bit worried about him...although his hips still twitched every now and again. “You ever fuck a man whose cock plumped up once you made him come?”  
  
Peter blinked what remained of his post-orgasmic haze away. “ _No._ ”  
  
“Ah. Well.”  
  
“So what, you just double in size or something?”  
  
“Not all of it, no. Just the base.” Fenix had the decency to look sheepish about it, although it hadn't really been his fault. “But...seriously? It's not like it's an uncommon thing.”  
  
Peter nodded, and normally he would have shrugged, but in that moment he was afraid that caused him to move too much. That knot was _thick._ And Fenix was still moving slightly, his hips stuttering of their own accord. “When does it..?”  
  
“Give it a few minutes. Ten, tops.”  
  
Ten minutes. This seemed like an extremely inconvenient manner of reproduction. What if you were late for your shuttle? Peter let his head fall back, a soft groan escaping him; at least now he knew what Yondu had been trying to warn him away from. “It's one hell of a finish; I'll give you that.”  
  
“Finish?” Peter looked up at the incredulous tone in Fenix's voice, and he was met with a knowing and slightly surprised grin. “Peter, I've still got another three or four rounds left in me. Easily.”  
  
Peter's jaw slackened and, despite an excess of worldly experience, he could feel his cheeks warm slightly. “...oh.” Seemed he wasn't going to be leaving the bed for a while yet.  
  
He just hoped Yondu didn't leave without him.  
  


* * *

  
  
Yondu laughed at him when he picked him up from the bar Fenix had been kind enough to drop him off at. Yondu laughed as they boarded the _Eclector._ Yondu stopped laughing while Peter showered, but he started up again when Peter emerged in a new outfit, covered in very visible love bites.  
  
In fact, Yondu only stopped laughing as he settled into the captain's chair, his voice tapering off to mean, raspy giggles as Peter shuffled his way over to the star-nav screen. “Oh yeah, Yondu, yuk it up. Yuk it up real good.”  
  
“I will. I warned you that a Hraxian man was more'n you could handle, an' what'd you go an' do? Give yourself to one of 'em, like a pretty lil' plurkey on Blistmas.”  
  
“Turkey, Christmas,” Peter huffed, tapping the map. “We've got messages from Kymellia, Nicantha, and Bellat. Looks like the Bellatans are hoping for some duty-free booze smuggling.”  
  
“Ping 'em, we'll take it.” Yondu's grin didn't droop for even a moment. “An' then you can go lie down. Rest them sore cheeks.”  
  
Peter's cheeks flamed so brightly, they obscured his freckles. “You're not funny.” He flagged the message, flicked it over to Yondu's comm...and stormed off towards the door. As much as he could storm, when most of his body between his navel and knees twinged every time he moved. He could hear some of the others snickering, and he made a mental note to make them regret it later.  
  
Kraglin glanced up at him as he went by, and his voice was quiet enough that Peter almost missed it.  
  
“So... _knot_ to your likin' then, Quill?”  
  
Peter didn't hit him, though it was a close thing. He just ducked his head and moved faster, ears burning. As if none of them had ever been surprised by the sheer variety found in the galactic reproductive pool. Bunch of orloni-brained douchebags.  
  
And distantly, he wondered when they were returning to Hrax.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Write_Like_an_American and RedRarebit for coming up with Hraxians, and a million million thanks to them for letting me play in their sandbox! And credit to my best friend for coming up with Fenix, the murderous ginger space bae, and his love of fucking Peter over the nearest flat surface.


End file.
